


flesh

by egoistkid



Category: Mysterious Skin (2005)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Neglect, Childhood Trauma, Denial of Feelings, F/F, Family Issues, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use, Repressed Memories, Strained Relationships, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-08-24 14:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16642364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egoistkid/pseuds/egoistkid
Summary: "Hell is empty and all the devils are here."Alternatively, "I’m Neil motherfucking McCormick. Not some dumbstruck fag looking for love in an honor roll student."





	1. drug-sucking vampires

**ERIC PRESTON**

The summer I was eight years old, I was living entirely off of Krispy Kreme donuts and the lukewarm coffee my mother would let me drink after she was ¾’s of the way done with it. Snacks were a big part of my childhood— my parents didn’t know how to entertain me 24/7, so when they were at a loss or simply too tired to, they’d run out and get me some munchies. Fruit snacks, teddy bear-shaped grahams, peanut butter and cheddar cracker sandwiches, whatever was convenient, available at the closest gas station, and required zero preparation became my daily fuel and cure for boredom.

I was homeschooled, not for creepy Catholic reasons or anything, just because my parents felt I wouldn’t like the environment. They were totally right in those regards. After their accident, I was forced to transfer to a tiny public school, and the adjustment was hell for me to cope with. A bunch of hormonal teenagers all crammed together in one building, forced to attend boring classes by law? Yeah, count me out.

Most of my childhood summers are a blur due to the stagnant lack of activity. Sure, I watched Gilligan’s Island reruns and helped my ma with her errands, I listened to the radio and searched for the “edgy” stations, but I wasn’t ever caught playing outside or with other kids my age.

Being an only child didn’t help the lack of socialization. My ma figured I was queer the third or fourth time she caught me playing in her makeup cabinet, smearing turquoise eyeshadow mixed with Vaseline on my lips and applying mascara under my eyes instead of on my lashes. In her defense, she did try and give me tips to look like less of a freakazoid when it came to makeup. Unfortunately, I fell in love with the unconventional, wacky type of looks.

I read about the New York club kid scene in an edition of Modesto Morning News and became even more enamored. The article, shoddily written and clearly biased to make the reader fear the group, told of the young “creatures of the night” who dressed extravagantly to go clubbing and abuse drugs. In bold, dripping text, the headline read, “Do you know what your children are doing at night?” The cheesy scare tactics used against the movement only made the enticement I felt grow stronger.

Reading about these people made me feel like how I was supposed to feel when reading scriptures from the Bible in Mass. I’m not exaggerating when I say it was a spiritual experience for me to discover, in black and white text, the ‘drug-sucking vampires of New York City’. My eyes scanned back and forth between the two small images that had been printed along with the article. One of a smiling drag queen, her eyebrows penciled on comically high atop her bald head, lips drawn huge, comparable to a lewd clown; She stood next to a woman clad entirely in reflective leather, her twin puffs of hair sticking out of the back. Another picture, a young man with lipstick smeared on his mouth, ridiculously long false eyelashes, a cropped top and a long skirt, his middle finger up and poorly censored.

That night, I lovingly cut out the article and duct taped it to the wall of my bedroom.


	2. everclear and kool-aid

**WENDY PETERSON**

 

By the time I was 14 years old, I had already narrowly escaped a date rape incident. To lay out the delightful scene, there was a party being thrown down in an old abandoned barn right on the brink of Hutchison, and me, having nothing better to do but feed my fantasies of being a reckless teen party animal, dragged Neil along without so much as a formal invitation.

Of course being the girl with her arm around the town queer got me made fun of. I didn’t care, and I stuck my tongue out at anyone who gave me a weird look, middle finger ready to be exposed to every asshole in the vicinity. If only I could hang up pictures showing the faces of the countless jerks who’ve been on the receiving end of my rude gestures. The same dainty fingers found themselves grabbing hold of plastic cups filled with booze, half-smoked cigarettes, and groovy glass pipes filled of pot throughout the night. My mother thought I was spending the night at Neil’s, which wasn’t too far from the truth, as that’s where I planned to stay after getting bored of the party. Neil, as usual, was talking to Christopher Ortega in the corner, the other queer freak from school who’s apparently a hustler on the side. Just thinking of such a job made me queasy, and Neil’s apparent interest and fascination with the subject didn’t help my uneasiness subside. Neil says he’s done it before, sort of, and then the conversation ends because it becomes too uncomfortable for either of us to stand. Coach.

I set my drink down on the fireplace, which, of-fucking-course, was my big mistake. But who did I look like, someone who actually paid attention to the PSA’s and anti-drug commercials they drilled into our brains in health class?

  
There was a boy, suddenly, close to me, and I was soaking up all the attention I could get like a dry sponge. There was a boy, suddenly, and he said he bet I couldn’t chug the rest of my drink. There was a boy, suddenly, and with the sharp taste of Everclear and Kool-Aid burning and numbing my throat, he took my hand and led me upstairs.

It didn’t take Neil more than five seconds to recognize I was gone, and less than a minute to stomp up the stairs and grab that fucker by the neck and nearly throw him out the room he’d led me to. I, the drunken and now drugged up heroine of the story, had shit for brains and not any sense of what could’ve happened to me. At the time, I just thought Neil was being Neil again, taking out some anger on some random schmuck, and I just an innocent bystander basking in the haze of intoxication. He slammed the door shut and then turned to me with something mighty dark in his eyes. “Well, hello there,” I hiccuped after a few moments of silence, everything in the world seeming to be in slow motion. He couldn’t help but grin at me, and I was already grinning back like a moron.

 

Of course, I ended up blacking out about 4 or 5 minutes after the interaction, but in my remaining moments of foolish consciousness, he laid on the bed next to me and braided my hair. I remember thinking about how the muffled house music downstairs sounded like the angels singing. Something idiotic like that. Then my vision went black, and the next thing I knew, I was sleeping in Neil’s bed like a newborn baby.

  



	3. new year's eve

**BRIAN LACKEY**

 

The eve of New Year’s I was alone, planning on watching late night TV and sketching in my ratty old notebook to welcome in the widely anticipated passage of time. However, my plans changed when I found my thoughts drifting back to Christmas, with Neil McCormick. The name left an odd taste in my mouth as I repeated it to myself slowly, rolling off my tongue like a swear word. An idea had hatched. Neil McCormick. I pulled on a big black crewneck sweatshirt Eric had lent me-- ignoring the fact that it smelled pretty strongly of marijuana-- and, checking my surroundings first, sneakily grabbed the bottle of whiskey under my bed that I’d stolen from my father’s old collection my mother still kept downstairs. I thought back on Eric teasing that he’d corrupted me, and it wasn’t far from the truth. I concealed it in my backpack and left early on my bike, around 6 PM. I didn’t bother calling Eric and asking for a ride, instead I embraced the cold bite of the wind and carried on, filled with a feeling of reckless determination I wasn’t aware I was capable of. 

There’s a part about being filled with reckless determination that they don’t tell you about--  what happens when you arrive at your destination. My cold hands were still slightly curled as if I were still tightly gripping the handlebars of the bicycle, my cheeks assumably reddened, my glasses fogged up and the world around me just a little bit blurred around the edges. I knock on the door with apprehension, two little thumps, barely heard. There’s a sound of something falling indoors followed by someone yelling, “Shit!”. It takes a minute for the door to finally open, but I hear whoever’s behind the door fumble with the locks, and there he is. Neil McCormick’s dark, straight eyebrows furrow when he recognizes my face. He seems like he was sleeping; his hair a mess and sticking up in the back, bags under his eyes, wearing a tank top and baggy jeans. Neil seems to be the type to sleep in jeans, I note to myself.

“Fuck are you doing here?” He drawls, his tone steady. I push up my glasses and meet his hardened gaze. “It’s New Year’s Eve,” There’s a pause of silence, and then he shrugs. “Well, come on in, junior,”

I make another mental note; I really hate it when he calls me that. 

It’s dark and empty in Neil McCormick’s house, clothes strung all over the floors, old dishes piling up on the kitchen counter, and a faint smell of vodka and cigarettes hitting you as soon as you walk in. “Mom’s out partyin’, won’t be home til tomorrow,” Neil mutters, almost to himself, as he leads me to his room. Surprisingly, it’s cleaner there than it is outside of the room. I feel awkward letting him guide me and again am reminded of Coach and my childhood, the soft and gentle “Here we go,” whispered right in my adolescent ear. I quickly rub my hand under my nose to make sure it’s not bleeding.

I sit on his bed, which is just the twin size, only enough room for the two of us to sit criss crossed next to each other. “You can stay the night,” Neil tells me as he organizes some random display of baseball cards in the corner of his room, which I assume is just him trying to distract himself. I couldn’t imagine a comfortable position in which we two would be able to sleep here in the same bed, and I hope that by the end of the night I can curl up on a couch instead. “I brought this,” I mumble, my voice higher in pitch than I would have preferred, pulling out the small bottle from my backpack. Neil grins. “Shit, Brian, getting a little big for your britches? You sure you can handle that?” I recognize that he’s teasing me and roll my eyes. “I’ve drank before. It’s no matter whether or not you decide to drink with me or not.” To prove further that I’m worthy of being tough or cool or whatever my brain is urging me to be, I unscrew the cap and take a big swig from it. The lukewarm liquid burns my throat immediately and my stomach turns in the heat. That wasn’t very wise, I think to myself. Neil McCormick seems to eat this kind of behavior up, and with a grin, he grabs the bottle from my hands and takes an even bigger swig than I did. I feel a tingling in my fingers and my stomach when I think about how I’ve impressed him, even in the slightest.

About an hour later and the both of us are pretty wasted, the now empty plastic bottle discarded on the wooden floor, and we’re watching some cheesy slasher flick showing on the small tv in the middle of the room. Neil cheers when the annoying main character finally gets her head chopped off, and I find it both childlike and charming. There are so many aspects of Neil McCormick that contradict each other, and yet so many aspects of his body and face that just go perfectly together, the straight eyebrows, the feminine curve of his hips, the lopsided and upturned smirk, the colbalt blue eyes. With this thought, I sit up straight with a start and realize two things: One, I am irrevocably drunk. Two, I might have become infatuated with Neil McCormick. I meet this realization with little shock or embarrassment, rather I acknowledge it and recognize that it was probably an inevitable, what with the whole crying on his lap in the old house of the man who stole my childhood thing. Or maybe it’s a Stockholm Syndrome thing. My brain strains itself too hard trying to think, so instead I turn to Neil and smile. “This is a good movie,” I slur with a faint chuckle, and he nods absentmindedly. In what I can only assume is a rare moment of vulnerability, he rests his head on my shoulder, eyes glued to the screen.

  
  



	4. full-of-shit therapists

**NEIL MCCORMICK**

“My therapist likes you,” 

It’s just about one of the weirdest things anyone's ever said to me. I furrow my brows and squint my eyes at the geek sitting in front of me (a voice in my head notes how calling him a geek doesn’t erase the fact that I’ve abashadley taken a liking to him). He hiccups, the alcohol in his system apparent by how disheveled he looks. The heat in his cheeks turns them a faint rosy color, his hair messy from him tossing and turning on my bed, his eyes sort of glazed over and far away. “You seriously talk to your shrink about me,” I state in a mocking tone. I never believed in therapists, or how apparently they can cure you of all the bullshit in your life-- for a price. Emotional prostitution, that’s what it is, and I’d rather be the one making the money without the drama and soppy crap. Brian laughs self-deprecatingly and nods. “She says you’re the main part of my support system,” I take another swig of whiskey and laugh with him. “Sounds like she’s full of shit,”

Brian’s hands are unusually cold, I notice when I brush against them to grab the TV remote. I also notice how his right leg is shaking, his whole body, really. The little things about him that don’t surprise me but seem to fill my head up with him. Why did he come? I wonder to myself. It’s not like I minded having the guy around, in fact, I seemed to enjoy it more than I’d let on, but I figured he’d never want to see me again after Christmas. Guess I was wrong. 

We talk. I tell him about Wendy, and her life in New York, and her petty drama. He tells me similar stories about his sister, Deborah. At the end of the night, we end up sharing my tiny ass bed, our bodies close enough to each other to take in our inhales, our exhales, our soft breaths as we try and try to fall asleep. Well, I guess Brian didn’t have to try, because he was out like a light as soon as he was horizontal. I, on the other hand, pretended to sleep for hours before finally opening my eyes and staring at my popcorn ceiling, accepting my fate of sleeplessness. A glance at Brian’s arm reveals a scattering of purple lines on his wrist where his sleeve rolled itself up to, and I wince. 

My eyes trail all over his body and eventually, I lace my fingers with his, and, making sure he’s asleep, rest my head on his shoulder. His palms are clammy and cold to the touch, but his breathing stays the same. I ignore the side of me telling me that being soft like this is bizarre, that holding his hand like this isn’t me, and instead choose to think of the intimacy of that night and the unspoken bond we two have, different than all the other friendships I’ve ever had before. We have a connection, sick and twisted as it may be, and I have a feeling we’ll be bound together whether we like it or not. Finally, I’m able to fall into slumber, and my thoughts melt away like tiny marshmallows in a mug of hot cocoa. 


	5. a wounded animal

**ERIC PRESTON**   
  


It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a human act anything like it. He’s writhing like a wounded animal on the side of the road, freshly maimed by an uncaring beast of a vehicle, clutching either side of his torso with his eyes squeezed shut. My head is cloudy from the pot I’ve smoked before he arrived, but I manage to stutter out a short, “Are you okay?”. Of course he’s not okay, idiot, I think to myself, he’s fucking dying. I’m breathless at the heart-wrenching sight of my best friend in this state, but still my brain tries to jump to rationality. I look around my surroundings for a phone. “I’m going to call an ambulance,” “No,” Brian winces at my sudden movement, and it sounds like it’s hurting him to even speak. “Dude, something’s wrong,” Another Captain Obvious statement. I want to fucking kick myself. Gee, Preston, you’re really on a roll today. 

“Gets like this,” Brian mumbles through gritted teeth, tears streaming down his face. He makes an effort to turn away from me so that I can’t see him as well. He’s on the floor, cloaked in a black sweatshirt and skinny jeans, and his entire body seems to be convulsing, shaking in a way almost alien to my eyes. “You just got back from Neil’s, right? Did that motherfucker do something to you? I’m more of a lover than a fighter, but I swear to God, I’ll ram my fist so far up his--” “Stop,” He brings his hands to either side of his head. “Fuck,” He whimpers, sounding like a child who’d just dropped his ice cream on the sidewalk. A few minutes pass and his sobs decrescendo, his shaking comes to a stop, and he lays there in silence, unmoving. I sit down next to him and gently lay a hand on his shoulder. “Brian?” He wipes his face and sits up. His eyes are a stunning crystal blue, and they pop more from the reddened whites of them. “I-I have to apologize,” He murmurs to me, turning to make eye contact. “I wish you hadn’t seen that, Eric. I’m sorry,” 

“Dude, what was wrong? You just came in, laid down on my floor, and started sobbing. That was seriously freaky,” I furrow my brows with concern and rest my hand on his to provide some form of emotional warmth-- God knows this boy needs it. “PTSD, a flashback,” he says, and it clicks in my head. Right. The mental disorder that’s been plaguing this poor kid since he could barely read or write. I frown and he smiles a little bit, still teary eyed. “Come on, now, don’t be sad on my behalf. You should be-” He hiccups in between his words. “-pissed off that I got your carpet wet,” I laugh and shake my head. At least he’s smiling now. “You know, my house is always a safe space for you to come and do that. Even if it scares the shit out of me. I’d rather you be here than by yourself,” He wipes his nose with his sleeve, a childlike gesture, and my heart swells with a maternal urge to protect him. “What happened at Neil’s, anyways?” I ask, scratching the back of my head. 

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” He murmurs, a faraway look in his eyes. And with that, we move on. I pull out my pipe and ask him if he wants to light up to forget his troubles. He hesitates before taking it and pressing it to his lips, making a motion for me to give him the lighter. I watch as the green drug in the pipe slowly turns from bright orange to black.


	6. neil mccormick says he doesn't have issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this on adderall and it's pretty dialogue heavy and boring, i also didn't edit it or even look over it halfway through so enjoy the shitshow

WENDY PETERSON

 

1:36 AM. It’s 1:36 fucking AM. I hear a blood curdling scream from the room over, sounding like it came straight from a goddamn slasher flick. I turn on my side and plug my ears with my fingers until I feel like they’re going to stick there forever. I love Neil, but sometimes best friends have to be real with each other and tell each other that something they do is annoying as all hell.

Neil McCormick says he doesn’t have issues. He takes his vodka straight, lukewarm, in any old container he can find. He smokes his cigarettes in the morning and after sex, a habit I became aware of when I got used to the stench of smoke invading my nostrils shortly after hearing loud moans and cries to God from his bedroom of treachery. “I won’t take too many guys home,” he’d promised the day he moved in, “Most johns prefer hotels for anonymity and shit anyways,” Bullshit. I love the kid, but he can be a real handful at times.

Neil McCormick says he doesn’t have issues. But I see the empty look on his face when he comes home and swears he’s never hustling again, I see the blank stare when when he’s left to his own devices for too long, like he’s a completely blank canvas, I see the burn marks on his thighs when he wears boxers around the house, I see it all.

And nightmares like this aren’t normal, something I constantly remind him of. Normal people don’t wake up screaming their lungs out as if they’re going to die. I gently suggest therapy, melatonin, lucid dreaming, herbal tea, anything. He denies them all with a snide comment and a glare.

This dream must have been fucking awful, because next thing I know, he’s stumbling into my room and standing in the door frame like he’s a scared kid who’d just seen a monster underneath his bed. I roll over and crack my eyes open. “You awake?” He mumbles, his voice cracking. I sit up. Even though I’d rather not deal with it right now, I know I have to be there for him. He almost never comes to me like this. I nod, and he comes to the side of my bed, sitting down on it.

“Dream about Brian,” He swallows thickly, and I notice his eyes are welling up with tears. He blinks them away. “I think I-I think I hurt him, Wendy,”

“Neil, you were nine years old,” I say my usual line with the usual sympathetic tone, the furrowed brows, the gentle touch on the shoulder to soothe him. But this time is just different. He shrugs my hand away. “No, I mean. I think I hurt him when I was back in Hutchinson for the holidays, bad,” His stare is blank, like he’s watching himself from across the room and not actually present in the moment. “What happened, Neil?” I ask softly, my voice hiking up an octave to show that I’m trying my best to be empathetic and kind.

“I just-- I just woke up, and he was sitting on the side of my bed. And I’m like, ‘what’s the rush, space captain?’, trying to crack a few jokes like I do. And he asks me if I still love Coach. He said Coach Heider, not Coach like I do. We got into an argument, me accusing him of psychoanalyzing me and him accusing me of throwing myself into sex and drugs to try and cope, the usual shit. I think he was worked up because he saw a stack of money on my dresser, and he knew I was hustling even on vacation. But this time he, he threw a drink on me, he was so riled up, I mean, Christ. What was I supposed to do? He was being fucking crazy. And he told me Coach didn’t love me, and that he used my body and left me, and that he ruined me. That stuff hurts, right? Anyone would have been pissed off. So I took him by the collar and threw him against the wall. The funny part is, he didn’t even seem phased by it. No, he was- he was more phased by what I said to him,” His voice got deep and quiet, and I inched in closer. “I told him he was mad because Coach never even fucking noticed him, never even liked him, for God’s sake. I told him he was mad because Coach fucked him without even knowing his full name. I told him he was mad because he couldn’t get anyone to fuck him the same way since, and I could,”

I visibly winced. Holy shit.

“And he just- he just got this stunned look on his face, like a deer in the headlights of a big old truck, and his nose started bleeding. Blood was running down his face and I tried to help, I tried to apologize, but he just ran. Right out my door. And I called and called and called, only to receive his answering machine and his mother, once. She told me she had half a mind to block my number if I didn’t stop blowing up the line. And I haven’t been able to reach him since,”

“God, I just- I keep fucking up, I always ruin the good things in my life and expect an apology to smooth things over. Fucking apologies, what good are they for? You can’t take the past back. You can’t change what you said or what you did. You fuck up and that’s it. I really liked the kid, you know? He helped me a lot more than I let on. And now, he’s--” He chokes and I can tell he’s crying, but he wipes away the tears as soon as they fall. He stops there.

“Have you talked to Eric about it?” I ask, chewing on my thumbnail, trying to think. He chuckles dryly, with no humor in his tone. “Fuck no. I’m too guilty,”

I throw my arms around his waist and squeeze him tight to me. “Neil, I don’t know. Maybe another trip down to Hutchinson to see that boy wouldn’t hurt,” He stares off into space and nods. “Sorry for unloading my bullshit onto you. You must be tired. I’ll try and fuck off somewhere else,”

He squirms away from my hug and regards me with a slight smile, no happiness present in his face. I return the look with a worried frown, and with that, he vanishes back into his room. All I can think about is that poor, traumatized boy in Hutchinson, Kansas, and end up not sleeping throughout the night. I doubt Neil does either. I pick up an old postcard, one with Eric’s phone number printed on it and regard it with an idea forming. All that Neil needs is a ticket to Hutchinson and some good old fashioned Preston Love, I think to myself. And some help phrasing a good enough apology for saying the kinds of cruel things that stick to people for life.

 

Neil McCormick says he doesn’t have issues, but I know that’s as far from the truth as possible.


	7. out, away, elsewhere, fuck you

**BRIAN LACKEY**   


 

When I take a shower, I expect to get wet and I expect the burning hot temperature that I usually prefer to scald my back, and I welcome it. To me, the shower is my sanctuary away from it all. I get clean, I get naked; which isn’t preferable (although at least I’ve grown out of showering in my bathing suit), I get to clear my head in the heat and steam. There are few things in my life recently that I’ve been able to expect and welcome with ease, for instance, Neil McCormick’s existence and the plethora of stupid things that come out of his mouth. 

I think again of what he said to me and feel a shiver go up my spine. My teeth clench, my eyes shut tight and then flutter back open. It’s official, I have a physical response for the disgust I feel towards him. Deep down, I know he’s not a monster. Not even a little bit. He’s a kid, who got mixed up with an evil man at the wrong time and hasn’t been able to find himself ever since. He’s been lost, bustling around with a tough face and a heart made of glass. He’s weak. He’s just like me. He would punch me if I ever repeated that description of him out loud. At the same time, however, hating him feels right. Hating him with all the fury and rage my weak body can conjure is what seems to be the best response.

Ignoring him has seemed to work, but one particular voicemail he sent tipped me over the edge. “Hey. It’s me. Tell me why you’re mad. Call back,” Fuck you, I immediately think as soon as the message is over. Fuck you, fuck you, you don’t deserve to hear a speech about why I’m mad, or why I think you’re not a monster, or why I can’t stay away from you even when it feels so good to make you wait around for my call. You don’t deserve any of it. 

Wendy calls. We skate around some awkward small talk about New York, friends, school, before she lets me know Neil’s back in town. She doesn’t say why, and instead pleads with me to go see him, and she tells me that he’s sorry. I feel a twinge of annoyance at the fact that Wendy knows what Neil said to me. I didn’t want those words to fall on any more ears, let alone my own. A few swigs of vodka for liquid courage, a quick “see ya” to my mom, who doesn’t notice the scent of alcohol on my breath, and I’m out the door.

  
There’s something one must understand about the McCormick household; when you knock on the door, they assume you’re a Jehovah’s Witness or someone coming to rob them. I hear tentative steps creaking from the wooden floors inside and the clatter of what I assume to be someone trying to find a gun. I clear my throat and knock again. Outside of the dark home emerges Neil’s mom, her raven hair wildly sticking up in every direction, curled in an imperfect mess, staring at me as if she’d seen a ghost. “Brian!” She immediately scoops my body up into a tight bear hug. “Well, Neil’s just been waiting and waiting for you to get back to him! Come on in!” 

I wordlessly walk past her into Neil’s room and shut the door behind me, my footsteps quiet. He’s laying on the bed with his headphones on, loud enough to hear the bassline of the angsty song from where I’m standing. His white tank top has a lemon-colored stain on it, his dark hair is greasy, and the dark eyelashes of his closed eyes brush against his pink cheeks. It stinks of weed and sweat in his room, and I crinkle my nose and stare at him for a few moments. 

“Asleep?” I mutter, mostly to myself, because I know he can’t hear me and probably not even his own thoughts with his loud music blasting into his ears. I nudge his shoulder and those blue eyes that I can’t stand flutter open. I guess it takes him a few seconds to process who I am, or to get out of whatever funk he was in to decide to respond, because he stares blankly at me for the world’s longest three seconds before reacting. “Brian,” I can tell he’s trying to stay calm with his tone, to seem cool and collected or whatever Neil’s aim is to be, but his eyes widen and he bites the inside of his cheek, and for a fleeting moment, I feel like inspecting him as closely as I am is invasive. Like I’m not supposed to look past the exterior that is Neil. The facade that he’s built for himself. 

Hearing his voice kind of threw a wrench in my plan to punch him in the face and break his nose; it’s soft, deep, and it sounds as if he hasn’t spoken in days and doesn’t recognize the voice himself. My heart skips a beat and I suddenly feel childlike, defenseless, lost. I press my lips together firmly and bite my lip. “I listened to your voicemails,” I hate the way I sound, all boyish and flustered, like I’d just came across a secret I wasn’t supposed to know and was trying to apologize for it. He sits up, leans in close to my face, and the pace of my breath quickens. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. It’s almost like he’s studying me, the way his droopy eyes gaze into mine. 

I snap out of it and firmly shove him backwards. “You know what, Neil?” My voice cracks when I say his name. He stays silent with a faraway look in his eyes. “Let’s go. Right now,” It’s a plan born from impulsivity and anger, but a plan nonetheless. “Where?” He questions with furrowed brows. “Out. Away. Elsewhere. Fuck you,” I add for good measure. It must be obvious that I’m not familiar with the art of swearing because this makes him grin. 

We end up getting in my car and driving for a long time. I stare straight out into the milky dirt roads, occasionally glancing to Neil, who rests his forehead on the cool glass of the window, staring outwards into the never-ending abyss of sky with only the faintest specks of glowing white stars scattered across it. I press down gently on the breaks, pulling off to the side of the road, a faraway barn the only thing in sight for miles. Putting the car in park, I pull my feet up on the seat and criss-cross my legs, then turning to face him. “I don’t know what to do, Neil,” I feel like he’s playing dumb when he responds with a non-committal ‘what?’, but I indulge him anyways. “I want-- I want to be mad. I want you to feel bad for what you said,” An “I do,” speedily comes out his mouth, but I shush him just as quick as he says it. “But part of me… Some self-loathing, disgusting part of me feels like you were right,” 

“And I know, that’s ridiculous and what you said is pretty-- pretty damn near unforgivable, honestly,” A humorless laugh escapes me. Neil looks like a wounded animal. “You really messed with my head. You know, I thought about what you said on repeat. It wouldn’t leave my brain, no matter how hard I tried to will it away. And, I want to be mad,” I’m babbling at this point, but the words spill out my mouth as if it’s a faucet on full blast. “But I’m not mad. In fact, I’ve probably been missing you more than you miss me,”  _ Because I like you _ , a voice in my head whispers. I push down the urge to blurt that out. I exhale, feeling like my heart is beating 80 miles a minute. I feel a cold hand cup my cheek, and I realize it’s Neil’s, and suddenly Neil’s close to me again, so close that I can almost taste his warm nicotine breath. My eyes struggle to meet his. My entire body is trembling now, barely enough to be noticeable but just the right amount to embarrass me and reveal my nerves. He presses his forehead against mine, and I forget how to speak. I steal a quick glance at his lips, then close my eyes to avoid making eye contact. The tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife. I take a shaky breath.

“There aren’t enough words in this stupid world to tell you how sorry I am,” He mumbles, putting emphasis on the word ‘stupid’. “I fucked up,” “I know,” I quickly reply, my eyes fluttering open, nearly surprising myself with the way I’m holding my ground. He nods, and there’s a beat of silence before his head tilts ever so slightly, and I brace myself.  _ He’s going to kiss me,  _ I think to myself.  _ He’s actually going to kiss me. _

_ And maybe I want him to? _

A sharp siren suddenly screeches in my ears, and I see red and blue flashing lights, beacons of civilization in the middle of this nowhere town we’ve found ourselves stuck in. Neil jerks his head backwards, biting his bottom lip. “Oh, fuck,” He groans. I feel disappointed and relieved at the same time. What are the odds of that timing? I glance at him, shyly, our eyes meeting, and then I start to laugh. It’s a quiet snicker at first, and then both of us are doing it, and then we’re both laughing so hard and so loud that it almost drowns out the police siren parked behind us. We laugh until our stomachs cramp up, and then we laugh some more. We’re still laughing when the cop approaches the car, looking both confused and disgusted. 

Out of all the things I’m unable to do, I think I can stand not being able to be mad at Neil McCormick.  


	8. coach dream

**NEIL MCCORMICK**

I wake up in a cold sweat, eyes fluttering wide open with a gasp. Another nightmare, one that makes me shudder to think about. Coach was there-- but I don’t want to remember what else had happened. Feels like there are hands around my throat and there isn't enough air in the room. _It shouldn't be like this._

I shouldn't be terrified to see Coach in my dreams-- it used to be an occurrence I'd enjoy and look forward to. All I can do is wish for a happy dream with him, with colorful cereal boxes, five-dollar-bills, and video games. My stomach sinks when I think of that and my nostalgia turns to nausea.  _ It shouldn't be like this _ , I think to myself, and run to the bathroom to vomit.

::

"You're quiet," Eric offers me a polite smile, teasing in his tone but motherly concern in his eyes, an expression he's probably gotten used to making on a regular basis.

I mumble a "fuck you" passively, eyes gazing elsewhere, dizzying thoughts overwhelming me. I don’t want to think of anything. Not Coach, not hustling, not mom, not Brian, not even the playgirl models from my mom's old magazines. I stare off into space and my mind wanders right back into that house. 

The first time it happened was like a tornado was happening, inside of the house, inside of Coach, inside his pants and inside my mouth. A tornado that had ripped our clothes off, one that had mixed me up so badly inside that I was certain I was going to barf everywhere-- and how embarrassing that would be was one of my few thoughts. And all of a sudden, my virginity was ripped away from me. It was a dull ache, gross and wrong, like we were playing a game together and Coach had overstepped the line and broke the rules. I cried, but I didn't make a noise. Instead I just laid face-down on the carpet, eyes wide open and cheeks wet with tears.

But I’d liked it. I basically belonged to Coach, and we were connected as if God had intended us to be joined like that all along. The dull, throbbing pain. The gruff voice in my ear, comforting, surreal, otherworldly.

"I liked it," I said aloud, suddenly, to nobody in particular. Vaguely, I wondered if that had been true. Eric looks at me and furrows his well-groomed eyebrows, but I shake my head before he can question me. "I need some air,"

I take out my shitty cell phone, one I had gotten for free in the mail from some government thing or whatever. Brian had a slightly nicer flip phone, and he'd entered his number in mine himself, under the name "Girlfriend". I snort when I read the name and don't bother changing it, and instead type out a text. 

_ 'feeling weird. Coach dream, Coach thoughts, the usual. thinking of u' _  . I stare at the text for a few moments and erase the last part, then type it back in. I decide not to pussy out and hit send. It takes him about five minutes to reply. 

' _Weird? Explain. Thinking of you, too.'_ For some reason, my heart jumps a little when I read that, and I ignore it and decide to smoke a cigarette before texting back, just so I don't respond too fast and make him think I'm in love with him or something. 

' _i liked it. but somehow i don't feel like i did, and i kinda threw up just thinking of him. it's never like this. i think it's cuz of u. ur therapy shit and whatnot'._

_'My therapy shit. Well, Neil, whether you accept this or not, you didn't like it. You only convinced yourself you did because it's what you had to do to survive. I'm sure that's not what you wanted to hear, but then again, your fault for texting me. You can pretend to be closed-off from me and I'll pretend like I don't find you endlessly fascinating.'_

Fuck. The guy just has a way of words that makes me feel all twisted up and nervous, scared and yet willing, like I've never really felt before. Like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff and I'm about to jump. _Endlessly fascinating_. Brian actually thinks I'm cool, somewhat, and that makes me happy. Even though his stupid psycho-analyzing crap drives me crazy. For some reason, his analysis on why I think I liked it doesn't piss me off as much as it usually does. 

' _blah blah blah. you're killing my boner'_

_'Funny. Don't I usually have the opposite affect on you?'_ And then, seconds later: ' _Kidding. Totally kidding.'_


	9. depressed kansas teen attempts suicide

**ERIC PRESTON**

It was 38 degrees outside, and the thin hospital scrubs I was wearing did nothing to warm me up as I stood haphazardly outside of the transport vehicle. My eyes scanned the exterior of the car-- no scratches or dents, but the paint looked pretty old. 

I guess I should start by explaining what landed me here in the first place. Maybe I could start off by listing my many emotional poems scratched into my dusty old notebook, the song that was playing when I did what I did, how many I took, what the pills tasted like as I washed them down with lukewarm water, et cetera. But really, I’ll start by saying I don’t even know why I did it. I was sad, as per the usual, but this time, it was all amplified and it felt like my body was just being consumed by these waves of inky-black depression. And I let myself drown, sort of. I usually take the meds for depression, but they aren’t doing me any miracles as of lately. My idea of taking at least two handfuls of them was spur of the moment. I wasn’t thinking of anyone but myself; not my grandparents, not Neil, Brian, Wendy, anyone. It was pretty selfish and about thirty minutes passed before I started feeling really sleepy. My head was spinning when I stumbled into my grandma’s room and told her what I’d done. Her first reaction was to shove me into the bathroom hurriedly and she directed me to jam my finger down my throat until I puked. I did as I was told, but I wasn’t sure if all of the pills were hacked up. My throat burned and my eyes were swelling with hot tears, and she told me she had to take me to the ER. 

So there I was, a gawky teenage queer stuck in the hospital waiting room, curls of green and black hair in my eyes and about 20 or so pills dissolving in my stomach. Funny, it sounds like an introduction to a bad joke. Anyways, I crawl into the backseat of the car. The leather is cold under my ass and there are steel bars separating the backseat from the two front seats. I guess because people get taken to these kind of places against their will, or they’re violent and try to hurt the driver. The thought makes me shudder. I see a ‘FUCK YOU’ scratched into the back of the seat and grin at it.  _ Fuck you, too _ , I think.

The hospital they take me to has a pond out front and a dismal, rusty swing set that looks like it’s never been used. Geese, or maybe ducks, float in the pond with their children. I stare at them for a long time before getting out of the car, letting myself be guided by the driver indoors. It smells like your typical waiting room, with a plastic table with tiny chairs in the corner for the kids, and tabloid magazines for the adults. I picture myself being featured as the cover story, my face black-and-white in a photograph, the caption below me reading, “Depressed Kansas Teen Attempts Suicide”. And, in a bubble next to my face, “LOSE 30 LBS FAST WITH THIS STRANGE DRINK!”. I chuckle at the thought, which apparently is not what you’re supposed to do in a mental hospital waiting room, because the driver shoots me a sharp grimace. 

I get checked in and my paperwork’s already done for, so they take me to a small room with a paper partition for what I assume is for changing clothes. They read me my patient rights and ask me the basic questions, like whether or not I’ve been abused by family, am I having thoughts of suicide or self harm right now, and when the attempt occurred. After the questioning, they instruct me to undress behind the partition, underwear and all, so they can check either for hidden items or scars. The nurse surveys my body (I position my hands over my junk so she doesn’t question why my pubes are bright green) and writes a note about a scar on my stomach I got from running with scissors, and a cigarette burn mark on my left wrist left by Neil as his way of showing endearment. They give me a 3XL dark blue sweatshirt (the only size other than a few youth sweatshirts), grey sweatpants, and non-slip socks to change into. They graciously bestow a pair of Kermit the Frog boxer-briefs upon me, as well. It only takes a few moments to get changed. “Comfy,” I say as I step out. The nurse says nothing, and flicks her eyes towards my ear. “You’ll need to take the piercings out,” She mutters. I open my mouth to object, but frankly, she has a rather bitchy resting face and I’m intimidated. So I take out the silver barbell earrings, then the two bars that were pierced through my helix, then my industrial. She holds out her hand and I drop the sterling silver jewelry into it. 

“Welcome to Marillac,” She says, deadpan, and then leads me to my unit. I vaguely wonder if I'll be able to call Neil or Brian. _I sure hope they can survive without me for a few days_ , I think to myself.


	10. saved as a draft

 

**BRIAN LACKEY**

 

_ ‘What is this between us?’ _

_ Saved as a draft at 8:15 PM.  _

 

_ ‘You know I have feelings for you, right? _

_ Saved as a draft at 8:17 PM.  _

 

_ ‘Did you feel the same way I did in the car that night?’ _

_ Saved as a draft at 8:22 PM. _

 

_ ‘I miss you.’ _

_ Saved as a draft at 8:30 PM.  _

It’s useless. Every text I write out sounds stupid or contrived. The overall  _ want _ I feel for Neil has been overpowering, every small touch or awkward moment they’ve had replaying on a loop in my mind. Especially that night, where the cops found us just before we were about to… do something. What that something was, I don’t know. I want to know. My desire to know is burning and I feel it deep in my chest. 

I guess I didn’t know I was some type of queer until Neil came into my life, no longer faceless and nameless, but real, made up of flesh and blood and not of vague nightmares. I never got crushes as a kid, never dated or went to the dances my school would host, never participated in silly gossip about girls. But even then, I didn’t think of men instead of women. I just didn’t think of anyone that way. Eric called my vibe “weirdly asexual”, which means someone who just doesn’t like either gender. I could see that being the case if Neil weren’t in the picture. However, my thoughts that involve him are frequent and, more often than not, embarrassing. Dreams where we kiss in bed, where we go on movie dates and hold hands in public, other sugary crap that I know he would make fun of me for. But it’s not just the sugary things I want. I have bad thoughts too, stuff like prodding him into admitting his childhood was fucked up, getting into fights with him over the bullshit he does, playing with his head and trying to coax some rational thought out of him. Of course, Avalyn stole my first kiss, so I kind of know what it’s like, but there’s something inside me that just knows it would be a million times better with Neil. Being so close to him, feeling his warm lips on mine, his hands on my body…

My face heats up just thinking of it. I’ve never really had  _ those  _ kinds of thoughts before, but maybe I’m leaning into the idea… I snap out of my Neil-induced haze and begin to type.

‘ _ Bring me some vodka? I don’t have homework to worry about right now. Bored out of my mind. My thoughts are starting to consume me.’  _

This time, I send it. My heart flutters at the sound of a buzz, and I flip open to read the new message. 

‘ _ ok, princess. spare me the details of whatever kinda crazy sexy thoughts ur having.’  _

 

::

 

“So, there I am, butt naked, and the john asks me to wrap a condom around my hand before jerking him off. I’m like, dude, I get this is New York, but seriously? How would that even work?” Neil’s saying, laughing between his words. I laugh too, although my cheeks are surely red from the topic at hand, and I’m not exactly sure how our conversation has switched to this. Probably all the alcohol. He stops laughing and looks at me. 

“Can I ask you something? And if you don’t want to answer, just call me an asshole,” I slowly nod. “You ever done something like that before?” He’s staring at me now, curiosity in his blue eyes, and I turn redder. 

“Hustling?” I ask, even though I know that’s not what he means. “No, like… I guess sex? I can’t really picture you doing anything like that,” I give him a faux-offended look and he laughs. 

“Um, no. Well, there was this one time with a girl, but… I threw her off of me. It was actually really scary,” I bite my lip, recalling the dreaded event with Avalyn which eventually led to me cutting all ties with her. 

“Oh,” Neil says, and he seems to think on this for a moment.

“Yeah, I’m your run-of-the-mill Boy Scout virgin,” I say, not wanting to change the subject. Talking about sex with Neil feels like I’m breaking a rule, like I’m doing something in secret that I have to hide, and it gives me a tingly feeling in my stomach. I can tell he feels similarly. 

“Sometimes, I want to,” I say breathily, purely fueled by the vodka, suddenly aware of how sweaty my palms are and how hot it is in my bedroom. My mom’s sound asleep by now, but still, there’s a fear in the back of my head that she knows I’m talking about this. Neil looks at me and holds eye contact for a long time before responding.

“Why don’t you?” 

“Nobody to proposition, I guess,” I blush and push my glasses up, avoiding his gaze now. Neil drank more than me, and even though he’s a heavyweight, I can tell he’s way more drunk than I am. 

“What about me?” 

My heart stops for a moment, and I forget how to breathe. Or rather, all the air is suddenly knocked out of me by those three little words, and I stand abruptly. I frantically rummage through my nightstand drawer for my inhaler.

“Shit,” He mumbles at my reaction, looking somewhat apologetic. 

“No,” I manage to cough out before holding the inhaler to my mouth and breathing in. “No, you’re fine, don’t worry,” I cough a few more times before finally being able to breathe normally, and I silently curse my lungs for sucking at being lungs. I sit back down on the bed and face Neil. “I’ve thought about it,” I admit. My face is so warm that I could probably fry an egg on it. 

“You’ve thought about it,” Neil echoes, and then a sly smile spreads across his face. He scoots closer to me, and I can smell the vodka on his breath. I feel afraid and apprehensive, like I’m stuck in an elevator that won’t open. “You’re drunk,” I say, scooting closer to him as well. My chest burns with that familiar wanting feeling, that desire that sledgehammers my body and forces me to face my fears, my fears of what will happen and how I’ll react. His face is so close to mine. All I have to do is lean in. 

“You even queer?” He asks. I shrug. “I’ve only… this is going to sound dumb,” I interrupt myself, knowing my face is probably redder than a tomato. Neil raises his eyebrows, so I continue. “I’ve only thought of one person that way,” He leans in an inch closer, our noses almost touching. “Who?” There’s mischief dancing in his eyes, and I can tell he wants this as bad as I do, whatever this is. I answer for him by leaning in, and his eyes go wide. My mouth meets his. His lips are soft and pliant, but I don’t really know what to do other than to lightly press mine to his, and it takes several seconds before either of us make a single movement. Finally, I pull away, having forgotten to breathe during the kiss. I’m breathing heavily, and I quickly rub my finger under my nose to check for blood. All clear. Neil looks surprised, and I smile, feeling drunk and happy. “The answer was you, in case you’re too dumb to interpret that,” 

His face cracks into a grin and he chuckles. “Shit, didn’t think you had that in ya,” He mutters, running a hand through his dark hair. There’s a pause of silence and I feel awkward. “...What now?” I ask hesitantly. Neil shrugs. “We tear each other’s clothes off, fuck like rabbits, then forget to call each other the morning after,” I chuckle. He continues. “Or we could just sit like this. Maybe kiss again. Talk about that psychological shit that I just love hearing from you,”

“I’d like that,” I mumble, and put my hands on his shoulders and pull him into another kiss. I get what people talk about when they say they feel fireworks. It feels more like a bomb, though, a grenade that went off and is about to severely injure us both. I’m intoxicated with the feeling of danger and excitement. 

And the alcohol, of course. 


	11. new york is fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a song I wrote inspired by this fic-- please give it a listen if you can! If you can't, the lyrics for it will be at the end notes. Also, I added chapter names! That was fun.
> 
> https://soundcloud.com/quinn-pelkey/devil

**NEIL MCCORMICK**

I left early in the morning and caught a Greyhound bus. I pressed my forehead to the glass, just staring blankly out the window, trying not to think about what-- or who-- I was leaving behind once again. I didn’t tell him I was leaving. He slept like a baby while I packed my bags and snuck out the front door. I guess I snuck away because it would be hard explaining exactly why I had to leave right after we had finally kissed, right after one of my ‘rare moments of vulnerability’, becoming less and less rare as time goes on. Maybe I was solely boarding this bus in the hopes of running away from it all. I didn’t even let Eric know I was headed back to New York, although I did run by his house to. Nobody answered the door, and the house was eerily silent, as if haunted by hundreds of ghosts, dead, never to speak again. 

I check my phone about two hours into the ride. 1 new text message.  _ FROM: Girlfriend. _

_ ‘I’m really trying not to put my abandonment issues on you here, (pardon the therapy-talk), but did you leave? Where are you?’  _

A wave of guilt washes over me and I press down hard on the “power off” button. That’s enough of that. Reading anything he writes right now will only make the fact that I’m leaving harder. It’ll only make my plan of avoiding him more difficult. He doesn’t need to know where I’m at, or what I’m doing, or how consuming my thoughts are about him. I’m Neil motherfucking McCormick. Not some dumbstruck fag looking for love in an honor roll student. 

When I finally arrive at the apartment, Wendy throws her arms around me and hugs me so tight I think my eyeballs might just pop right out of their sockets. She smells like hair dye and cherries, which makes sense because there are these awesome bright red streaks in her brown hair, bringing out the emerald in her eyes. “I was gonna dye my whole head,” She says on the subject. “But I didn’t want to go out and buy two tubs of the dye. So it’s just red-ish.” 

We decide to go out bar-hopping, which honestly only interested me because I always got this weird surge of confidence whenever my fake ID worked, which it always did. Sure, I’d been drinking since 13, so the feeling of underage alcohol consumption had been one familiar to me, but deceiving fools who couldn’t tell the difference between a 19 year old and a 21 year old was always a fun game. Wendy had one too, from Hawaii with a rainbow on it, and it had given her the identity of ‘Fatima Young’. She looks wild in the picture, pupils dilated wide and her messy hair dreaded with the sides shaved. I always loved that look on her. Now, she decides to keep it straight, but she still shaves the sides every few months or so, never letting them grow too long. 

“This is Desiree,” Wendy shouts over the loud pop music ringing throughout the bar, holding the hand of an awfully pretty girl, all long braided hair down to her ass, purple glitter eyeliner encircling her brown eyes. I nod and shout a “Hi,” to her, and she responds by giving me a big smile. I guess Wendy wasn’t as heterosexual as I’d first thought, because the way the two dance together is everything but appropriate. I watch with a sort of hazy feeling in my head, my eyes glazed over. A guy with a beard jabs me in the side, and I look up. He smirks at me, bottom lip jutting out with what must be chewing tobacco. 

“You hardly look 21,” Every word has to be yelled in order to be heard, and even then it’s hard to make out what he’s saying. “You hardly look like a cop,” I yell back, mischief twinkling in my eyes. Guys go crazy over that look. Innocent face paired with some terribly dangerous eyes. It excites them. I can tell the look worked, and he grabs my forearm. “Want to go smoke?” He asks. He doesn’t want us to go smoke. He wants us to fuck in the bathroom. I shrug, nonchalant, and follow his lead. It’s only as I enter the bathroom and start unbuttoning my pants when my thoughts drift to Brian, to how soft and yielding his lips were on mine, the tension in the air between us that night. I come in a matter of minutes. It’s the first time I’ve had sex without thinking of Coach. 

Weeks pass, then months. My phone stays off inside my pocket, but I can nearly feel it burning a hole through my jeans, just begging me to check who’s messaged or called. Of course, the only contacts on there are my mom, Wendy, Eric, and Brian. And only one of those people texts me on a daily basis. 

New York is fun. I like lazing on the couch with Wendy, watching her sketch out naked people in her notebook, people who she’s undoubtedly fucked while thinking about how she’ll draw them later. She’s kind of turned into a slut like me, not in the sense of taking money for sex, but in the sense of fucking whenever she wants with whoever she wants. She doesn’t get much shit for kissing girls at straight parties, because the bonehead hetero guys find it hot, and she merely rolls her eyes at them and pretends they’re not ogling her. “My sexuality is not for your consumption,” She snapped at one once, her voice dripping with poison. Apparently, her vocabulary has improved from spending so much time with college chicks, and she seems to be getting smarter and sharper every day. I learn a lot about feminism, women’s rights and politics and whatnot, from her ranting on and on in my ear about the patriarchy and how unfair the world is. 

New York is fun, sure, that’s a given, but there’s something big missing. The drugs are great, the sex isn’t awful, the alcohol still burns the same way going down. But it all feels somewhat empty. Without him, is what I mean. I wish that wasn’t what I mean, but the truth is, I miss that fucker more and more every goddamn second, and it pisses me off to no end. I sneak out around 3 AM, wondering if there’s a curfew or some sort of law preventing adults from walking around at this hour, locking the door behind me. I’m wearing a white tank top and jeans, which I feel is appropriate despite the cold weather. I like the way the cold wind stings at my skin. I find myself at a sad-looking park, with an abandoned swing set and a metal slide. My hand fishes out my phone from my pocket. How long has it been, I wonder? Two months? A little more than that? I press my thumb firmly on the power button, and it turns on, it’s pale light washing over my face.

7 new messages, 16 missed calls.  _ FROM: Girlfriend. _

My heart jumps a little when I remember how Brian had entered that as his name in my phone, chuckling to himself because it was a joke I wouldn’t get until I checked my phone again. I remember his laugh, breathy and soft, and I hear it in my ears, almost being able to feel his breath on my cheek. Fuck. I shouldn’t check what he’s said.

I do anyways, because I’m obviously a masochist and enjoy reading things that will do me absolutely no good to read. I feel like I’m invading his privacy, despite the fact he knowingly sent these and expected me to read them, it just all reads like sad diary entries. And I don’t feel deserving enough to receive such honest and heartfelt messages.

_ ‘Text me back. I was scared that you would leave, and now you are. Or you have. I’m jumping from assumption to assumption here.’  _

_ ‘It’s been weeks. Are you thinking about me as often as I’m thinking of you? I feel like I’m going insane. Text back.’ _

_ ‘Is it seriously because we kissed? Are you that scared of being vulnerable?’ _

_ ‘I’m sorry for whatever I said to upset you. Whatever I did, we can just forget about it. Okay?’ _

_ ‘I wish I could say I hate you, but we’d both know I’d be lying. Call me.’  _

_ ‘Eric won’t answer, either. What did I do?’ _

And the last, a little more heartbreaking than all the others had been, simply read: ‘ _ Please.’ _

I think of replying, detailing how sorry I am for being fucked up and possibly fucking him up as well, but I don’t. I want to tell him he didn’t do anything wrong, that I’m the one who’s all messed up and rotten inside, that I don’t deserve to be graced with his somehow poetic text messages. But I don’t. I smoke a cigarette, put my phone in my pocket, and walk back to the apartment. I don’t even let the stupid tears in my eyes fall. Well, maybe I do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics for my song 'devil', as mentioned in the beginning of this chapter:
> 
> he didn’t ruin me, i ruined myself  
> i’ll take responsibility for my own hell  
> i am the devil inside of my bones  
> and i am the evil inside of that home  
> you can tell me i didn’t deserve it  
> but i’m familiar with fairy tales  
> and the fact that they're all bullshit
> 
> did the space shuttle land too far from home  
> do you feel lost now that you’ve left me all alone  
> cuz i’m feeling pretty fucking goddamn scared  
> and now there’s no fake therapist there
> 
> two queer fuck ups in this shithole town  
> i’m pretty sure that cliche has been worn out  
> you say that its all trauma, you say that it was wrong  
> i say i’m fine, but deep down, im not that strong  
> i can tell you you didn’t deserve it  
> but how can i when i can’t say the same for me  
> constantly running away from my problems  
> it’s a shame that you had to leave
> 
> he didn’t ruin me i ruined myself  
> i’ll take responsibility for my own hell  
> i am the devil inside of my bones  
> and i am the evil inside of that home
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	12. a proper send-off

**ERIC PRESTON**

Turns out, I can’t call anyone except for my grandparents in this place. I wonder if Brian is worried-- I know that Neil wouldn’t give a shit either way. It’s a nice place, for the most part. The first day I’m there, I’m pretty quiet, keeping to myself and whatnot. That is, until gym time. I find myself sitting on a mat in the corner when a familiar face approaches. I furrow my brows at him. “Christopher Ortega?” I ask. One of the only other queer kids at school, the guy who got Neil interested in hustling. He’s tall, with curly dark hair (I can tell the color came from a box dye) and he’s black, a little darker than I am. “Don’t let them hear ya. Not supposed to know each other’s last names in here,” He says under his breath. His voice is smooth and deep, and yeah, he’s definitely a guy I’d be into. I sit up a little straighter and try to act cool. “Who gives a shit?” I say.  He cracks a grin at me and finds a seat right next to me. Our knees are touching. 

He asks me what I’m in for, as if we’re in jail or something, and I skip the details and simply say “overdose”. He tells me he’s in for aggression, and doesn’t really elaborate. I find myself being more and more interested in him as we talk. He glances at me and asks, “You fucked Neil?” My face flushes. “Yeah, but we’re just friends,” He nods, and I notice how sharp the line of his jaw is, how his adam’s apple bobs up and down as he talks. Very handsome. “He’s cool. I mean, he's an idiot, but cool,” He mutters.

During free time, he slips me a small piece of paper, folded evenly. I open it under the table.  _ “Room 16, after lights out. Big guy takes his break at 10:30.” _ It says. My heartbeat quickens. He seriously wants me to sneak out and go to his room? 

Listen, I’m not the most promiscuous gay guy you’ll ever meet. My first was a secret boyfriend I had in middle school, who swore up and down he was straight, and the only other guy I’ve been with was Neil. I’ve long since lost that infatuation I had for him, and no longer reminisce on the “novelty” of our sexual escapades. So, this smoking hot guy being into me kinda freaks me out. I’m not the most experienced, and I know a guy like Christopher must be, what with the hustling and the being gorgeous thing. I slip the note into the waistband of my briefs and don’t so much as look at him for the rest of the day.

10:15 PM. I’m laying on my cot, my roommate fast asleep in the one next to me, fully clothed and staring at the ceiling. Soon, it’ll be 10:30, and Christopher will be expecting me to… do something. Sneak in and blow his mind with my awesome sex skills. I would laugh at how bizarre the idea is if I wasn’t scared shitless. What would happen if I got caught? If I just didn’t show up at all? Would he still talk to me? Would we talk after we get out?

10:29 PM. I slowly rise from my position and step tentatively outside the room. The chair where the guard sits to watch everyone is empty. I sneak my way into room 16 and silently close the door behind me. I nearly yelp when I see Christopher right behind the door, standing ominously and staring at me. “Hi,” I whisper, not meeting his gaze. “Took some balls to come here and meet me,” He says, keeping his voice hushed and low. I nod, still not looking at him. I feel his hand brush up against my cheek, and my heart is racing. “Soft skin,” He says. “I moisturize,” I reply. My voice is shaky, and I think he picks up on it because he runs his other hand through my hair slowly, as if trying to calm me. “You’re so pretty,” He mumbles, and I blush. This is really happening. I’m going to get my brains fucked out in a mental hospital with the hottest gay guy in the state of Kansas. It’s like a happy ending to the film that is my stay at Marillac. 

“Come,” He whispers, and leads me towards the bed. I slowly follow, my dick getting harder as I think of the possibilities, but he doesn’t stop at the bed-- instead, he’s standing by the window. He pulls a wrench out of his pocket, and I furrow my brows in confusion. He points to the bolts keeping the window shut. “We’re getting out of here,” His voice is filled with determination, and it dawns on me that I am not here for an illicit hookup. I am here to be an accomplice. “Are you-- Are you fucking serious?” I ask, my voice higher in pitch than I would have liked it to be. He’s trying to get the bolts off now, his movements fast and desperate. “Wow. Okay. I thought we were--” I stop my sentence and clear my throat. “You realize they’re just going to catch you and keep you in here longer?” 

“We can get out,” He whispers frantically. “We can be free,” He slams the wrench against the glass, but it doesn’t make a dent. “You’re nuts,” I say, shocked and confused and sexually frustrated all at once. He turns to me and grabs my shoulders, tight, and I can’t squirm out of his grip. “Eric, the moment I saw your face, I knew I had to get you out of here. Guys like us can’t be cooped up and hidden away. We-- We have to--” I push him away, hard, and step back. He stops, standing still with the wrench in his hand, and for a fleeting moment, I worry he’ll hit me with it. “Dude, I’m just doing my time and minding my business. Do you honestly think escaping is a better option?”

His face drops, as does the wrench. He sighs. “I just thought… Fuck. I’m going crazy in here,” I slowly put a hand on his shoulder, trying to provide some kind of comfort. “It’s okay. I am too. That’s the point,” I am thoroughly freaked out but still morbidly interested in this guy and how his brain works. What did he even think would happen if we got out? Pretty impulsive. 

I turn to leave, knowing the guard would be off break soon. I’d seen enough crazy for one day.  “Eric?” He asks. I look back. He’s sitting on the bed now, looking exhausted. The moonlight reflects off his eyes from the window, and the contours of his face are visible. “Wanna suck me off?”

I scrunch up my nose and stare at him. I ponder this for a few moments, then sigh. “What have I got to lose?” And with that, I drop to my knees in front of him. 

I leave the very next day, way early in the morning, nobody having noticed I wasn’t in my room for exactly two hours last night.  _ So, I guess there’s my happy ending after all, _ I think to myself. A proper send-off. I wonder when he’ll be out, and I feel a new piece of paper under my waistband, hidden. His phone number.


	13. you make me feel

**NEIL MCCORMICK**

 

It’s about three months since leaving Brian without so much as a goodbye when I snort my third ever line of coke. The first two, of course, being from that night in Brighton Beach, the one I can’t seem to forget no matter how many times I try to wipe it from my brain. It burns my nose and leaves me with an airy feeling in my head, but the instant rush is so worth it. Euphoria racks through my body in waves, and I know Wendy wouldn’t like it if she knew I was doing this. I know although it feels good, the memories it brings back are almost too strong to bear. I know it won’t make me forget about Brian, or about that asshole in Brighton Beach, or about Co--

Another line, this one quicker than the last. It goes up, and I feel my body getting warmer. I hug myself around my shoulders, reveling in the high. Sporadic flashes of memory invade my mind in between the moments of happiness. A shampoo bottle banging against my head. Staring at the shower drain and my blood swirling down it. Hearing the word ‘slut’ being screamed at me as if it needed to be drilled into my brain. Slut. Slut. Slut. 

I guess the coke must have made me sick, because I feel bile come up my throat and quickly rush to the sink. Must’ve just been the coke, nothing else. No other reason imaginable for that. I puke up the little food I’ve eaten and wipe my mouth after I’m done, turning on the faucet so Wendy doesn’t see the mess when she gets home. My phone buzzes in my pocket.

_ ‘You’re really doing this?’ _

The messages had dwindled in frequency, but they’re still desperate and heart-achingly Brian. I decide to go outside to smoke a cigarette when I notice an envelope in the mailbox addressed to me. I open it. The ink is neon green, and I know immediately that it’s from Eric. 

‘ _ Neil-- _

_ So, maybe you’ve noticed I was gone when you were in Hutchinson. Thanks for caring. That’s sarcasm, in case you can’t tell. I was stuck in the loony bin for a while, which is very on-brand for me, but now I’m hearing that you up and left without even saying bye. Brian’s a wreck. I mean, I don’t want to say he’s a wreck, because he’s my best friend and I love him no matter what, but he’s really fucking upset and is pretty much inconsolable. He says you two kissed. _

_ Neil, you’ve broken enough hearts in your lifetime. Can’t you leave the innocent bystanders out of it? Speaking as one of your victims, this is just low. Even for you. _

_ I know you won’t respond. I know I won’t ever be able to understand the vast nuances of your friendship with Brian, your pasts, whatever happened on Christmas, et cetera. But I do know that I won’t let you treat people like this anymore without consequences. Don’t think anyone will come running to see you if you do come back. In fact, just stay in New York for good. Do us all a favor. _

_ Yes, I’m mad and will probably apologize for half the things I’m saying later on. But I have a right to be mad at you. Stop doing this and take care of yourself. That’s all I have to say. _

_ Eric’ _

I crumple up the letter and throw it on the ground, along with my lit cigarette. It catches fire and I watch it burn for just a few seconds before stomping the flames out.  _ What-fucking-ever. Be mad,  _ I think.  _ See if I give a damn. _

I answer a call from Brian on a whim hours later, probably because I’m still riding my high and the low I got from reading that stupid letter. It’s silent on the other line for a few seconds, only breathing, and then I hear his voice. 

“Neil?”

It’s soft, anxious, boyish, and Brian all over. I feel like I’ve been hit with all the memories of him, and I remember his scent, his soft snores at night, how his lips felt on mine… I realize I haven’t said a word. I open my mouth to try to choke out a response, an explanation, anything, but I can’t. The words die in my throat. I suddenly hear a loud crash, as if someone has just thrown a plate on the floor, its glass shattering into a million pieces. It must have been Brian, because his voice is more labored now, intense, panting between his words. “F-Finally decided to answer, huh?” There’s a sharp edge to his tone, as if he wants his words to prick me and make me bleed. I listen with bated breath. “Hey, you fucked me up and now I’m just like you, is that what you want to hear? Haha,” His laugh has no humor behind it. It sounds desperate, aching. 

I can feel my heartbeat, loud in my ears. I say nothing. “God, you make me  _ feel _ ,” His voice cracks. I hear him sob, only for a moment. “And I don’t like it anymore. I want it to stop,” And, Christ, even though there are hundreds of miles between us I can feel him right next to me, I can feel his tears, wet on my cheek. Even though his voice is only being transmitted to me through a telephone, I can feel the heartbreak, the grief, the emotion behind it all. I can feel my stomach caving in on itself, a pit forming along with a knot in my throat. Just like that, from the hatred in his voice at first and the desperation just now, I feel wetness on my top lip. I rub my hand on it and look down to a cherry streak of blood. A nosebleed.

“You made me forget myself. I thought,” Another humorless laugh mixed with a sob. “I thought I could be someone good, instead of this mess I am. I really fucked myself over,” Curse words always sound foreign on Brian’s tongue. Somehow, he makes them sound innocent. Like he’s just a kid who doesn’t know what they mean.  _ Just a kid. _ God, Brian’s still just a kid, and I’ve made him break down like this. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut, like I’ve been hit over the head. 

_ Slut. _

I whip my head around to check where exactly I’d hear that from. Surely, it couldn’t have been Brian… 

No, he’s silent on the other end now, just crying quietly, a soft composition of tears and heartache as if his lamentation is an infant’s lullaby… 

_ Slut. Slut knows what he’s getting next.  _

I hear the harsh beep of the phone as I quickly press end on the call. I look around, this time walking all over the house, checking every window and door to make sure they’re locked. Nothing. I go into the bathroom, staring at myself in the dirty mirror, specks of water and toothpaste staining its glass. I don’t look like me. I look like an amalgamation of stolen human parts, all molded together into this weird flesh sculpture with haunted eyes and a dead stare. I wash the blood from my nose and stick a tissue up my nostril. 

When Wendy comes home, I don’t tell her what’s happened, although I suspect she’s found the note from Eric and is slowly piecing the parts of why I haven’t mentioned Hutchinson together. Whatever. She can psychoanalyze me all she fucking wants, but she doesn’t know me.  _ Not like Brian does, _ a voice calls out in my head. I shove that thought down. Another voice, this time more real, more human:

_ I like you, Neil. I like you so much. _

I don’t waste a second before screaming at the top of my lungs, slamming a fist into the wall in front of me. 


	14. unwelcomed pity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys. sorry ive been MIA for a while. went to the hospital a bunch. nothing really happens in this chapter but some more action will be occuring in the next one. you can always message me with ideas for this fic also ! writers block sucks

**ERIC** **PRESTON**

 

Consoling Brian is harder than I thought it would be. My life has become a little bit hectic, what with the boyfriend from the psych ward and the passive aggressive letters to the old flame, and now, dealing with the guy he left behind added to the mix. Scratch that— I didn’t mean Brian is just “a guy who Neil left behind”. That’s not, like, his identity or anything, and obviously not the reason I’m hanging out with him. While it’s true that Neil is what brought us two together, I could give two shits about him nowadays. It’s more like Neil’s identity is now “the guy who left behind my best friend, Brian”.

Anyways, identities aside, turns out that letting Brian drink vodka like a dehydrated animal lost in a desert is not the correct way to help him cope. My grandparents have taken to calling him “the drunk”, jokingly of course, but it’s clear they’re a little annoyed by the incidents he’s been causing at my house. Throwing up on the carpet, taking naps in the bathtub, leaving scarlet stains on the walls from his nosebleeds. It’s pretty messy. So, I decide to lay down the law with him whilst hanging out together one day, equipping my typical “mom” role.

“Hey, honey. Think you might wanna lay off the booze?” My tone is akin to one I would use to soothe a frightened child. Brian thinks I’m joking at first, because he chuckles, then his face sort of falters when he realizes I’m serious. “What?”

“It’s just... you know... you drink a lot nowadays,” I stammer, trying not to upset him. “You do, too, Eric,” he slowly replies, his eyes gazing elsewhere. I suck in a breath and shake my head. “Well... not exactly to the same extent.” We share a long pause of silence.

“You think I have a problem.” Brian mumbles. His expression is unreadable. I open my mouth to backtrack, but then he speaks again. “An alcohol problem. That’s familiar.”

“Brian, I didn’t mean to—“ “No, it’s fine. I get it.” His expression is blank. I feel that I’ve crossed a line, or brought up some ugly memories that he would have rather kept buried. I remember the phone call to his father on that night so long ago. ‘So, tell me, dear father...’ The rage in his voice was an emotion he rarely showed in front of me. His father, the alcoholic, the stern, the demeaning and emasculating.

I suggest using pot instead, but Brian shakes his head. No drugs for him. He can be pretty straight-edge when it comes to that kind of thing. The whole possibility of having hallucinations scares him too much. And he says it’ll interfere with his meds— I want to bring up the point that alcohol will, too, but I decide it’s for the best that I keep my big mouth shut and respect his boundaries.

::

Christopher and I’s relationship moves pretty fast. He asks me out through text as soon as he gets out of the hospital, and I accept the offer, not because I’m sure of my feelings for him, but because I’ve never had a real boyfriend and I’m eager to know what it’s like. Though I’m not sure if ours can be considered the normal kind of wholesome dating experience. Sex is our love language. He wants to try everything he can with me, and I get the idea that he sees my inexperience as a challenge.

Where Neil’s tongue was icy and cold, Christopher’s is wet and hot. Where Neil’s hands were harsh and rough, Christopher’s are yielding and soft. Where Neil’s moans were quiet and distinct, Christopher’s are loud and messy. I find myself comparing the two a lot for someone who claims not to give a shit about Neil.

“Neil’s gone, huh? For good?” He asks me one night after some mind-blowing sex. I wipe the sweat from my forehead and sigh. “Looks like it. Poor Brian,” As soon as those two words come out my mouth, I regret saying them. It was just a stupid sentiment to express, making Brian out to be a martyr. Giving pity where it’s not welcomed.

I take a moment to gaze at his body. He has muscles, and his stomach is toned. He seems like a kind of guy who pretends not to care about his looks, but spends nights exercising. Neil has the more effortless look, skinny and stick-like with just whispers of what could be some strength in his arms. 

“He’ll come back, you know,” He says. My head’s still a little fuzzy from my orgasm, but I tilt my head in questioning. “You can’t leave Hutch. You can move, sure, but being born here is a fucking curse that you can’t escape. You always circle back. Hell, I’d say that’s true for the entire state.” I press my lips to his shoulder, because he seems to be getting worked up and I want to soothe him.

He takes a long drag from his menthol cigarette, and I try not to inhale the smoke. We don’t speak any further of Neil or the booby trap that is Hutchinson, Kansas, but my mind stays on the two subjects for the rest of the day.


End file.
